The Past He Used to Know
by Genevievey
Summary: Oneshot. Peter ran away to Neverland the day he was born, but we hardly ever think about the family that he left behind.


_Author's Note: This is based on J.M Barrie's wonderful book, and the Broadway musical version (the lyrics used come from a song called 'Distant Melody' from the musical). Of course, I do not own any of these characters or lyrics; although I did invent all details about Peter's mother._

We all remember Peter telling Wendy that he "ran away from home the day he was born, because he heard his mother and father discussing what he was to be when he became a man". In the musical version, there is a scene in which Peter remembers a lullaby that his mother used to sing. It's a beautiful bittersweet song, and it made me think about the life that Peter left behind. This is my take on it.

**The Past He Used to Know**

In one part of London there stands a particular house. Though it now looks rather tired, it was once quite a stately residence; this much is obvious by the decoratively-carved eaves, and the lovely stained-glass windows which glow either side of the front door.

If we peer through the lit window on the top floor, we can see into the nursery; nicely furnished with toys and comforts, though perhaps not so much as the richest family can afford. But though some of their belongings are a little worn or faded, they still serve their purpose—see, there on the bed lays a well-loved book of fairy tales, full of lessons and morals to mould a young mind.

And next to the book, all wrapped up in the bedclothes, lays a little boy. He has just nodded off to sleep, and is sucking his small pink thumb. There is his Mother; leaning over his cradle she smooths his sandy hair, and presses a tender kiss to his forehead, before picking up the storybook to return it to the shelf.

This Mother is a beautiful lady. See how gracefully she moves to the bookshelf; one can imagine that she would have danced gaily and lightly at every ball when she was a girl—but she never dances anymore. Her long golden hair is pinned back, but a few wisps always escape, blowing about her sweet face. There, in the corner of her mouth, is her special Kiss; if you have seen many Kisses, you will know that hers looks somehow different—frozen perhaps. Many times has she earnestly tried to bestow that one Kiss upon her little son there, but she has never quite been able to. Kisses are always meant for someone, you know, and cannot be given away to anyone else.

This Mother's Kiss was meant for her first son, but he graced that little bed for only one night. She had only just had the joy of putting him to bed for the first time, and singing him to sleep. His Father had wrapped an arm about her, and as they left their child to his dreams, the new parents had mused and hoped about his future. Would he be a lawyer, and earn a great deal of money? Perhaps he would be a successful scholar. Whatever he did, he would grow up to be an admirable man of great strength and respectability; his Father was sure of it.

But the very next day, when his Mother had come to wake him, the little cot was empty (oddly sprinkled with strange sparkly dust), and the nursery window hung open. His Mother cried out in despair upon finding it so, and rushed to the window, but there was no sign of her dear little son. Her husband placed adverts in the newspaper, with the promise of a reward for the return of their boy, but to no avail. Being grown-ups who had forgotten all about fairies and the Neverland, they assumed that he had been kidnapped; it never occurred to them that their son could have the ability or the inclination to run away from their home. They never thought to leave the window open for his return.

A full year of tears and longing went by, and in due time the Mother had another son, and she tried very hard to be happy. Quite understandably she was terrified that this one too might be kidnapped, so she had her husband fit bars over the window. She still checks the lock and the bars every evening, before she leaves the nursery. Her husband is a busy businessman, and he seems almost to have forgotten their first son. The Mother is a strong sort of woman, and so puts on a brave face. The only time you can really tell that her heart is broken is when she sings the lullaby.

See, now she puts the storybook back on the shelf, and turns back to face the bed where her son lies. Softly, sweetly, she hums, and then begins to sing in earnest.

"_My child, my very own,__  
Don't be afraid, you're not alone.__  
Sleep until the dawn,  
For all is well…"_

Oh, but see how she turns back to the window, reaching out to touch one hand against the cold glass. Her eyes are misty with tears as she gazes forlornly into the night. She cannot forget her son, and every night she says a prayer for him, if he is still alive, that he is safe and well. When this is done, she tiptoes from the nursery, and closes the door.

Although he tries to, her son cannot quite forget his Mother. Perhaps it is that prayer and the lullaby she sings, but at night he cannot seem to help remembering. One night he flew back, ready to alight on the windowsill and be received with great joy; his parents would be so glad to have him back, that perhaps they wouldn't force him to grow up at all…but what instead he found the nursery window barred, and another little boy sleeping in his bed. From that night on, he never came to that particular house, except to smash the flower pots out of spite (although sometimes he would pick one of the flowers and tuck it into his tunic).

No, instead he comes to the nursery windows of other children; to glimpse the world which he is denied, and to take them on adventures to the land in which they cannot stay. This boy has caused many tears, not least those of his own Mother…and yet, he has caused much laughter and much joy, even if it must be the temporary kind.

This is the way it must be, and the way it always shall…


End file.
